


Ferdibert Shorts

by Bohemienne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22227229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: AssortedFerdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestrashort snippets and prompt fills. No additional relationship tags will apply for Hubert or Ferdinand, though there may be other assorted non-Hubert or -Ferdinand ships in the background. Additional content tags and warnings will be listed in the notes at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 16
Kudos: 137





	1. Angsty Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for post-timeskip Ferdinand saying "I can't keep kissing other people and pretending they're you" and Hubert saying "You make me want things I can't have."

Hubert has been trying to focus on the paperwork spread before him in the dining hall for the past two hours, but it was only an inadequate distraction from the sound he was really listening for. The sound of the monastery gates groaning shut, and metal greaves on the stone entry hall. When he hears it at last, he hurriedly picks up the missive before him and does his best to appear as though he was reading it all along.

The dining hall door swings open, and Ferdinand slips inside. His footsteps stop abruptly when he spots who else is in the hall at this hour, and Hubert’s shoulders tense—until finally Ferdinand lets his breath out in a huff and storms over to the cooking stove.

Hubert sets the paper back down and finally allows himself to turn Ferdinand’s way.

The sight of him is a knife slipping between Hubert’s ribs: his hair blown out into stormy waves from a horseback ride, his figure solid and bold. His eyes, though, usually unbearably bright, are tarnished and narrowed as he lights the stove and sets a kettle on it to prepare himself a cup of tea.

“Back so soon?” Hubert muses. “You did not enjoy your . . . _date_?” He knows he sounds exactly as he feels—strangled with the wire of his own bitter envy—but there’s nothing to be done for it.

Ferdinand pulls a teacup down from the cupboard and slams it against the counter. “What does it matter to you?”

He drums his fingers against his papers. “Merely looking after the troops’ morale.”

“Yes, well.” Ferdinand shakes his head, still not looking at him. “It went abysmally, if you must know.”

Hubert’s heart lurches into his throat. The wise thing would be to stay seated. The wisest thing would have been to not wait up for Ferdinand at all. It _shouldn’t_ matter to him what Ferdinand does, or who he does it with. He forfeited the right to care all those months ago, on a starlit garden path, a gloved hand on his cheek and that impossibly lovely face tilting up toward his own—

And coward that he is, he turned away.

But he stands; he moves toward the cabinetry, and parks himself at Ferdinand’s side. Their eyes meet, and once more, Ferdinand makes that agonized wince and sideways glance. Hubert hesitates—stops himself from trying to smooth that wince away, tilt that gentle face back toward his. Instead, he reaches for the highest shelf where he hides a bottle of Vestra single-malt.

“The gentleman was not suitably . . . gentlemanly?” Hubert asks, offering him the bottle.

Ferdinand takes it with a tired laugh, and wrenches the cork free with his teeth. Oh. And if _that_ isn’t a sight designed to wring the air right from Hubert’s lungs. “He was perfectly decent. Just . . . decent.” Ferdinand takes a swig, rosy lips wrapping around the bottle’s mouth. “And decent is not enough.”

An easy insult springs to Hubert’s lips—mocking Ferdinand for his impossible standards, his spoiled noble sentiments—but he manages to hold it at bay for once. “At least you know what it is you want, then.”

Ferdinand twists the bottle in his hands, his mouth curved with a sour smile. “If only I did not.” He laughs again as he takes another drink. “But try as I might, I cannot keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

Hubert shrinks into himself, his body going numb with an agonizing void. But he has no one else to blame—for turning away from Ferdinand’s advances, for provoking him now. He opens his mouth, but anything he could say would be inadequate—wholly undeserving. A weed offered to a man who deserves a whole garden in bloom.

“And what about you, Hubert?” Ferdinand dangles the bottle between two fingers, body curving forward, and for a long moment, the only sound is the crackle of flame from the stove. “What is it that _you_ want?”

Hubert closes his mouth. Swallows. “You make me want things I can’t have.”

The bottle’s swinging stops between them. Slowly, with unbearable care, Ferdinand returns it to the counter. “Can’t?” he echoes. “Or won’t?”

“You cannot possibly be satisfied with someone like me.” Hubert tries to bring himself to step back, but once again, his cowardice betrays him. “With a cruel and undeserving shadow of a man—”

Ferdinand brings his other arm around, pinning Hubert against the counter. Once more, his face is too close, his warmth too palpable, the pain in his eyes too sharp to ignore. “What I want,” he says, “is not for you to decide. I only wish to know if you want me, too.”

Hubert closes his eyes and tries to breathe, but it’s too ragged, too dizzying. He can smell Ferdinand’s cologne and the dust of the road. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“Enlighten me.”

Ferdinand wraps one hand around Hubert’s head as their lips collide, and this time, Hubert refuses to turn away. He locks his hands in wind-tossed curls and his thighs around a muscled leg, and even the shrieking kettle isn’t enough to tear him away.

Ferdinand snuffs the stove with one hand without letting go of Hubert; their foreheads press together as they struggle for the same air. Hubert flexes his fingers, still tangled in Ferdinand’s hair. “I’m sorry if I’m not enough, if I cannot live up to your imaginings—”

“Stop that.” Ferdinand nips at his lower lip, his taste stinging and sweet with whisky. “You’re everything to me.”


	2. Academy Unexpected Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for Academy Ferdibert hurt/comfort with Hubert saying the phrase "You're going to break my heart, von Aegir."

Ferdinand opens his eyes to find Professor Casagrande hovering over him. “Oh, thank fu—uhhh, funsies. You’re awake.” Before Ferdinand can respond, she shoves something silver into the pocket of her cloak. “I’ll go let the professor know. Give you a minute with your visitor.” She winks, and vanishes.

“Professor . . . ?” Ferdinand tries to sit up, but his head spins, the sight of the monastery infirmary swirling around him. Finally, it comes back to him in snatched bits of memory—the wicked archivist Tomas, or whoever he was, infecting an entire village! The devilish Death Knight charging for the professor, and Ferdinand valiantly riding in to protect them. Judging by the burning pain on his right arm, he must have taken quite a hit; and he must really be out of it, because as he looks past his bandaged arm, he could swear he sees von Vestra hunkered down in a nearby chair, face contorted like he’s some kind of constipated spider.

“Hubert?” Ferdinand asks, half-expecting him to vanish like the hallucination he must be.

Hubert glowers at him. “Of all the idiotic things you’ve done, that might have been the stupidest.”

Ferdinand sinks back into the pillows with a huff. “Were you really lurking around just so you could insult me once I woke?”

“Hmmph. Of course not. I wanted to inform you just how much you owe me for picking up your slack on stable duty.”

Ferdinand bolts back upright, then winces at the pain that spirals along his right side. “Ow. What do you mean? How long have I been unconscious?”

“Sit back down before you hurt yourself even further.” Hubert storms toward him, and circles to his left side. Ferdinand’s pulse stutters at his sudden nearness; the same prickly-skinned sensation he gets when they trade barbs in class, or must maneuver around each other in the stables. “And it’s been three days, if you _must_ know.”

“Three days? And you are already here to harass me about missing stable duty when I could have _died_ —”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You were hardly in danger of dying, at least, according to Manuela—”

“ _You_ are going to be the death of me, von Vestra, with this relentless badgering!”

“And if you don’t stop trying to be such a foolish hero on the battlefield, von Aegir, you’re going to break my heart!”

Ferdinand stares at him, trying to string the words he just uttered into some kind of sensible order. Hubert’s eyes go wide as he shoves away from the cot, but the terror on his face is quickly replaced by a redoubling of his usual scowl.

And then Hubert bares his teeth in some horrible mockery of a smile. “Oh, you should see that dumbfounded look on your face. You’re far too easy to fluster.”

Before Ferdinand can interrogate him further, though, Professor Casagrande bustles back into the room, Professor Eisner in tow. “Okay, lovebirds, sorry to break up the fun!”

“I was just on my way out,” Hubert says smoothly, then shoots Ferdinand another glare. “Don’t forget, von Aegir. You owe me.”

Ferdinand grumbles; sticks out his arm for the professor’s inspection. “We shall see about that.”


	3. Truth Serum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for Byleth and Edelgard sneaking a truth serum into Hubert and Ferdinand's food.

“Must you chew so loudly?” Hubert snaps, glaring across the table at Ferdinand. “It draws an unnecessary amount of attention to your mouth.”

Edelgard raises one eyebrow at that last part before turning toward Byleth. Dropping her voice low, she whispers, “Is it working?”

But Byleth only shrugs in return. “With them? Who knows.”

“Well, perhaps you _should_ spend more time paying attention to the words coming out of my mouth, and less time thinking up cheeky rejoinders.” Ferdinand jabs his fork into his fish with a vengeance. “In fact, you could stand to devote more attention to my mouth, period.”

Hubert swallows down his own bite of fish. “I already spend _entirely_ too much of my attention on those intolerably rosy lips, thank you very much.”

Nearby, Dorothea’s spoon clatters against her plate.

“Okay,” Byleth allows, whispering to Edelgard again, “ _that_ might be it working.”

“Well, if you are going to spend so damned much time staring at them, the _least_ you could do is find the gall to kiss them for once.”

“ _They’re still arguing,_ ” Edelgard whispers out of the side of her mouth.

“It’s a truth serum, not a get-along serum.” Byleth squints at the emptied vial they stole out of Hubert’s room. “I, um, guess that’s just their natural state?”

Hubert slams his utensils down and stands with a flutter of his cape. “Perhaps if _you_ weren’t the coward who brushed off all of my advances—”

“ _What_ advances—”

“Oh, don’t be so damned dense!” Hubert cries.

Byleth smacks Edelgard’s thigh, as if she can’t already see what’s coming—

“Would a coward,” Ferdinand shouts, “do _this_?”

And then he’s scrambling over the banquet table, armored greaves on his knees shattering the plate of truth serum-laced fish, and seizing Hubert by the collar of his cape and wrenching him close. Hubert’s shoulders draw up in shock, but he quickly recovers—burying his hands in Ferdinand’s long hair as he tries to regain control, clambering onto the table as well.

“Seriously?” Dorothea says. “Right in front of my sorbet?”

“Finally.” Byleth holds out her hand, and Edelgard slaps it in one of those “high fives” the professor has told her about before lacing their fingers together. “At least that’s over with.”

“Well. The stubborn denial part is over with, at least.” Edelgard scoots her plate away from Hubert’s knee as her advisers continue ravishing each other. “But I have a feeling they’re only about to get even more obnoxious.”


	4. Post-Battle Hurt/Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for post-battle timeskip hurt/comfort.

Ferdinand knows it’s happened before he even sees it. The oily smell of a black magic spell lingering too long, its cast unfinished; a pained grunt, barely suppressed. He yanks his steed’s reins to pull away from the spearman he’s just felled and prods him into a gallop toward the sound. The last position where he’d seen Hubert.

The rest is pure instinct. A charging thrust with his lance. A wordless cry. Leaning from his saddle to wrench Hubert’s bloodied form up from the ground, wrestling him onto his steed, pushing his palm against the too-warm liquid seeping from Hubert’s side, as if he can hold him together, as if, if he rides fast enough, he can unwind time itself.

The medic’s tent is chaos around him, but to Ferdinand, the world shrinks down to one cot, one man curled up on it, looking impossibly small on the white sheets and nearly as pale. They give Hubert a sleeping draught, but it doesn’t seem to affect him. ( _ Knowing him, he’s built up a tolerance to it, _ Linhardt mutters.) Instead, he seems to drift between a restless sleep and bleary-eyed anguish—but he’s alive, he’s alive.

Sometimes, there are words. Nonsense. Noise. Sometimes, it makes just enough sense to frighten Ferdinand. “They’ll come for me,” Hubert insists at one point, clutching at his bandages, trying to rip them off. “They’ll want what they’re owed. For their aid.”

Ferdinand grabs his hand before he can claw at his freshly-dressed wound, and Hubert’s fingers tighten around his, hooking onto him like he’s clinging to a ledge. “No one is coming,” Ferdinand murmurs, in the soothing tone he used with his younger sisters. “You are safe here.”

Hubert’s other hand grasps for Ferdinand’s face. Holds firm. His bangs are slicked back with clammy sweat, and he stares at Ferdinand with both eyes, so intense Ferdinand is afraid to breathe.

“You aren’t safe,” Hubert says. “Not with me.”

Ferdinand closes his eyes. “Do not be absurd.” He swallows; he closes his other hand over Hubert’s on his cheek. “The only thing I fear is—losing you.”

Hubert goes limp with a ragged laugh, arms thudding back to the cot. “I must be delirious. The great Aegir heir worrying over a wretch like me—”

“Stop that.”

Ferdinand moves closer, leaning over the cot, and wipes the sweat from Hubert’s brow with his kerchief. Despite himself, he lets his hand linger, and the tiny sigh that escapes Hubert’s lips, the painful openness in his expression, assures him it’s all right.

“You are very dear to me. Painfully so. And my taste is most refined, so I will not hear any criticism to the contrary.”

Hubert’s eyes lid as a gentle smile spreads on his lips. His smiles are usually so strained—but this is the most peaceful Ferdinand thinks he’s ever seen him. He can’t help but smile back, even as tears gather in his eyes.

“In that case,” Hubert says, “I hope this isn’t a dream.” He opens his eyes, brows furrowing. “—Stay with me?”

“Get your rest.” Ferdinand strokes his cheek. “I am not going anywhere.”


	5. Academy Kissing to Shut Them Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the kissing prompt: "7. To shut them up" with a request for Academy-era Hubert and Ferdinand.

“And why, pray tell, is a _von Aegir_ so deeply interested in magical studies all of a sudden?” Hubert asks, manifesting like some kind of foul stench over Ferdinand’s shoulder in between the previously-empty library’s shelves.

Ferdinand cringes and slams the book of sigils closed. “Are the theatrics really necessary, von Vestra?”

“Let me guess.” Hubert leans back against the opposite shelf; in the narrow space, his boots are pressing right against Ferdinand’s. “You heard that Lady Edelgard was undergoing some Reason lessons with the professor, and you don’t want to be outdone.” He crosses his arms and regards Ferdinand with one pale, icy-green eye and a self-satisfied smirk.

“Look how proud you are of yourself. In fact, I had no idea Edelgard was training in Reason. I simply took it upon myself as part of a well-rounded education.” And perhaps learn how to counter Hubert’s own spells in the sparring ring, but he doesn’t need to share that part.

“Pathetic.” Hubert slides lower against the shelving, so they’re eye to eye. “I used to think you hardly knew how to speak without lying and deceiving, just like your worthless father. But now, I suspect you lie to yourself most of all.”

Ferdinand’s gloved hand makes a fist. “You have no idea what you are talking about—”

“You shield your true feelings from yourself, boasting endlessly to cover up your own awareness of just how insignificant and powerless you’ll always be.” Hubert laughs to himself. “You are chained to the old order, your warped sense of propriety, and one of these days you will choke yourself on those chains rather than free yourself of those confines—”

“You think I am chained?” Ferdinand snaps. “I am—in full control of myself, with no need to lie—”

“Look at you, lying to yourself right now—”

But he has had quite enough of Hubert’s accusations, and in one quick lunge, he is straddling one of Hubert’s thighs, his lips on that stupid, hateful mouth, one hand pinning a vile, murderous one to the shelving. Hubert freezes beneath him, then goes slack, mouth opening, his bitter taste blossoming on Ferdinand’s tongue, and as Ferdinand’s hips rock forward Hubert unleashes a wicked _moan_ —

And that sound is enough to jolt Ferdinand from his angry haze as he leaps off of Hubert’s leg and straightens his uniform jacket with a glare. Hubert’s face is wide, shocked—but instantly he brings the back of a gloved hand to his own mouth as he laughs, dark and cruel.

“More lies and deception. As ever, Ferdinand.” He shoves off the shelving and turns for the door. Then pauses, with a quick glance over his shoulder. “Enjoy your studies.”

Ferdinand bites his own gloved fist with a frustrated snarl. As if he can possibly return to studying after _that_.


	6. Academy Secret Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the kissing prompt "8. in secrecy" with a request for Academy-era Hubert and Ferdinand.

Habits are too easily made, too painfully broken; and if Hubert has become conditioned to anything, it is—of all things—the sound of the barn door latching shut. It is wide amber eyes in dark shadows, teeth gripping shyly at a pink lower lip, white-gloved hands fussing anxiously with a chiffon cravat. It is Ferdinand von Aegir, of all terrible things, looking at him with a noxious mixture of hopefulness and want.

And today—like every day—should be the day he puts an end to this foul little habit, this way they’ve somehow found themselves concluding each round of stable duty, though he can scarcely remember how or why. But like a needle seeking north, he is drawn to that miserable brat instead, his palm finding a soft cheek and cradling it even as he backs him up against the wall of hanging tack.

Ferdinand starts to cry out, but Hubert smothers it with his mouth, head bending down, and Ferdinand’s face tilts up to him like the unbearable sunflower that he is. His hands are roaming Hubert’s sides and back, kneading the stiff fabric of his jacket, clinging to him, as their lips push back and forth. Ferdinand bears the oily taste of bergamot, and Hubert hates it, and he can’t help but chase after it with his tongue.

Eyes squeezed shut. Fingers digging into perfectly coiffed copper hair. Knee pushing between thighs, heat growing, yearning to rip the little duke into bloody shreds even as he wants Ferdinand to seize him by his wrists, shove him to his knees, make him recant all the terrible things he’s said and beg—

Hubert growls, fanning the fire in his belly, as Ferdinand’s teeth scrape across his lower lip. No, he won’t let this little braggart get the better of him, he won’t be brought to heel. He snatches Ferdinand’s hands off of him and pushes them back into the wall. But even that makes Ferdinand whimper and squirm against him, and, _fuck_ , it is not helping matters in the least—

But then the chapel bells are tolling. Their hour of service is over. They all but leap apart, and Ferdinand scurries to the barn door to unlatch it, even though his face is bright red. All Hubert can do is slump against the wall and try not to watch him as he pushes the door wide.

“Ah. Would you, um. Care to study with me in my room this evening after supper?” Ferdinand asks, sticking his head back through the door.

Hubert clenches his teeth and tries to focus on the acrid stench of freshly changed hay. Anything but the blood welling on the inside of his lip. “I shall be otherwise occupied.”

Ferdinand nods, and Hubert can feel those eyes assessing a moment longer. “I shall see you tomorrow, then.”

Hubert despises it, but he will.


	7. First Kisses for #kissagingerday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle first kisses on the bridge, as promised, for #kissagingerday.

Ferdinand clings to the bridge railing, the crisp breeze doing him no favors in his efforts not to cry. Sundown washes the Oghma Mountains surrounding the monastery in gold, and the clouds drifting over the valley are liquid with pink and orange, but he’s too infuriated with himself to enjoy their beauty. Rather than enjoy the birdsong and the distant sounds of the villages, all he hears are his own foolish words rattling around like sharp rocks in his head.

Worst of all is that for all he wants to blame Hubert for his outburst, he can’t. Not really. He’s the one who backed Hubert into this corner. He’s the one who was too overcome with fear and pride to see Hubert’s words for what they were.

“Ferdinand?”

Ferdinand tilts his head skyward, trying to will the tears back into his ducts. The last person he wants to speak to now—and yet Hubert’s voice sounds so fragile, like a broken teacup glued back together all wrong.

“What is it, Vestra?”

“I—I’ll leave you be if that’s what you truly want.” Hubert is a tiny dark smear in the golden light. “But I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. For losing my temper with you.”

_Yes, of course, call this meeting early, general. We all know you can’t wait to run off and spend your evening with anyone else._

Ferdinand winces; tilts his head to invite Hubert closer. “It was not what I meant.”

“To end the meeting before we’d reached a consensus?” Hubert asks. He shuffles nearer, features coming into view. His face as angular as the broken pottery sound of his voice right now. His eyes sunken, defensive. And yet his expression is one of utter defeat.

“No. Yes. I mean—” Ferdinand rubs a gloved hand at his jaw. “There is nowhere I wish to run off to. No one.” He shakes his head. “What I said the other day—when I declined your invitation—I did not realize what you were asking me.”

Hubert lowers his gaze. “When I—asked for your company on a ride, you mean.”

“Yes. I only—thought you were mocking me, perhaps. I don’t know. I did not think for a moment that you earnestly wished for my companionship. Ever,” he adds, with a bitter laugh.

Hubert blinks. “How could you not know that?”

“You’ve never said as much, for one.” Now he takes a tentative step toward Hubert, and though Hubert draws his shoulders up, he doesn’t step away. “You harden your heart behind so many barriers—how am I to know its contents?”

“Ferdinand.”

Hubert’s hand lifts, now, to graze Ferdinand’s cheek with gloved fingertips. With a sigh, Ferdinand leans into it—then catches it in his own. Tilts his head until his lips sweep over a silk-clad palm.

“I don’t know how to do this courtship dance,” Hubert confesses. “I’d hoped my intentions would be clear enough on their own. But you deserve more than my meager fumblings. You deserve so much more than a crooked little shadow—”

“Hubert.” Ferdinand releases his hand; brings his own, now, to cradle Hubert’s head. The soft whimper Hubert makes, the flutter of his lashes, as Ferdinand curls his fingers through dark hair quickens Ferdinand’s pulse. “I will be the judge of what I deserve. What I want.” He smiles; curses the wind for watering his vision once more—“And I want you.”

Hubert sucks in his breath, eyes lidding, shaking with disbelieving laughter. “I want you, Ferdinand. Flames, you’ve no idea.”

“I would like to find out.”

Ferdinand tilts forward, lifting onto the balls of his feet, and meets Hubert’s lips with his. Hubert’s reaction is instant, a sweet sigh and an arm sweeping around Ferdinand’s waist, his head bowing down, and then he’s opening to Ferdinand, he’s tasting him, he’s drawing him in with his sweetly bitter taste. Ferdinand tries to say with his mouth all the words his heart has failed him to supply, and as they hold each other, as he clutches as Hubert’s hair and Hubert bunches at his cape, he things, maybe, he might at least convey a sliver of all he wants to say.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert gasps, forehead pressing to his, his warm breath its own kiss on Ferdinand’s face, his heartbeat sturdy against Ferdinand’s chest. “I’m sorry. I should have—”

“Shush. None of that, now.” Ferdinand kisses him again, stroking his cheek, then lets his mouth round on Hubert’s lower lip, worrying at it until Hubert leans into him with a pleased cry. “From now on, we move forward.”

“Always, with you.” Hubert kisses him again, and Ferdinand loses himself with Hubert as the sunset yields to dusk.

**Author's Note:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)


End file.
